talking has become a surplusage
when thoughts are like a gathering of
old friends in the university where
we finished college

there is always an ongoing exchange of
what if's
or oh my God
is that you?
what happened
to the standard bearer
of 1981?

the lips are like tombs whose openings are
closed
recently because the dead body is there
resting in eternal peace

the room has become a very big ocean for the two of us
boats without sails

in the middle of darkness going nowhere

of course i know what coldness is
apart from something that is cool

when mother died her hands were extremely cold
for my hold
i let them go
there was no sadness
there was that happiness of letting her rest
and giving myself a little space

for tomorrow
when coldness comes again in an empty room
with open windows
i know not what panic shall be

my hands are extremely cold these days
when i kiss them
my lips become frozen
they break like glasses

i cannot speak
there is no way that my tongue shall give in to
words
it cannot face coldness in the mirror
of my face

since you ask and you demand an explanation i open my hands
and i let your hands touch them

i cannot speak i am afraid i will be cruel
you must hold these extreme coldness for a long time
so you can all let them go
like white birds against a dark sky

so you can also experience what happiness
i had when i let go off
mama's fears

when mama closed her eyes
because what was important she knew
need not be said anymore

she brought them all kindly to her grave

there is no such thing as done
everything is always unfinished

you think a bud dies, it does not
you think that the twig that you cut
remains cut

like a dead end of the road
that is always not the case

you think that the body of the man that we buried
is all that is,
that is not the real case

a story shall be borne it gives a bud and a twig another start
a poem is written it marks a new understanding

and the grain of sand becomes another planet
a drift wood becomes another one's dream of a bridge

it is not just the seed it is also the covering
not just the ring that you see but another one's marriage

a view can be immortalized in a painting
or even when the painting rots itself all colors cracking

there is always something that remains unsaid
it is
what is always unfinished

the one that we know but which we never uttered
the one we uttered but which we start to doubt and not really know

oh it is like a wheel of a bicycle
like the ring that you keep on wearing
like a hemisphere that you have traveled
over and over
as though you have known
it forever

between my house and my office
is a long road connecting both like a snake
it head to tail

quite a venomous image of my dwelling and existence
i could have used the word
toxic

inside the car the silence is like a carpet
silence is soft and perfumed this time
it has given an ambiance for a monologue

this time there are more of myself, three
it is not a monologue anymore, there are three persons arguing
against each other's principles

the first one is saying that the second is crazy
the crazy one retorts that the first one is the usual unhappy
and withdrawn type
the third is singing a song
thinking that there must be a way to solve problems
in the lyrics of a song

the first one claims ' Is there really a problem? '
the second one says, ' How stupid can you be not knowing that problems always exist? '
the third one stops singing and with dignity
recalls that there is always
pride in restraint and
sacrifice

'Only God knows how to sacrifice' he said

'Are you telling us that we are devils? You idiot! ' the two
exclaimed in unison.

Everything seems to boil down to morality
'why should it be? ' i ask myself.

and then the three decided to go
dissolve inside me. I lost the singer, the logician,
the realist.

They are like chunks of sugar, a pinch of salt,
a drop of vinegar, mixing themselves
in my cup of tea.

there is always something that happens
which i am trying to understand when i drive my car alone
between my house and my office

like a snake that is now forming a benzene
ring
its head trying to bite its own tail
tasting its own
blood.

before i sleep let me write this one

it has no meaning
it is but just a marker of what i feel

feelings are like water
with no monuments

boundaries always change
and so riparian feelers always quarrel

over nothing over something that simply comes
and goes and goes and comes like

a pendulum of floods and dry bed upon
a common river

what is see are dead woods drifting
old people holding their young crossing a river

boulders of stones on the side
a river bank without any growing plants

what i am marking is not even time
i do not know what it is

i write this one
when by chance i read this again

i know i will remember something or someone
or if at all i will remember a wall without words

a street without a name a pair of sleepers left on the sands
or i meet people who sound like me but whose faces are blank

you must know what remembering is
it is always incomplete

some details are missing but there is a shadow
a stroke an outline of what once made you happy

what once made you fly in the heavens or
what also one gave you all the pains of falling

a double edge sword that is what i am writing tonight
an i remember the face of truth

yes, it is a Picasso.
A paloma.
Labios. My corazon.

It is when i watch it
that i become free.

no doubt about it, i am
free,
i am freed from what i
am hiding

i am always hiding
away, i am freed

from the world that
i live in, i watch the world

i am far, faraway, it is
this distance that makes
me free,

i like it the way when i
do not touch any
part of this world,

i can feel a little dignity
of not having to touch it,

i just watch it, and i am
complete, it is only a matter

of time, i am uninvolved,
i pass away, i only stop here,

to watch, it is too messy,
it has no art of its own,

the disorder is like a pile
of dry leaves blown by the

strong wind from the sea,
there is always a scattering,

who can stop it? i wish i could,
but that is not what i can do,

all i can do is watch, and i become
perfect, and after that moment of

having seen the everyday show,
i walk away, i begin again in

another place, watching how days
go by, how people prove themselves,

how they can be right as they claim,
i listen, but i do not keep what is said,

i always go away, it is just this way,
a pair of eyes, a little blindness,

i choose, what to take with me,
now, i do not take any.

There is a door which you open

you enter, and then it closes you
behind you
forever,

there is no force here,
but only volition,

you enter it
with all the warnings,
that the
possibility that it will close forever
has been told to you
over and over
again,

somehow, you do not make it a problem
you like a closed door, and you hate it
when it opens,
you love it when it is closed forever,
the room is nice
there is a certain loveliness
in there,

it has shiny floors,
it has a bright ceiling,
the lights are lovely,
like stars
in an open dark sky

the air is fresh,
the walls are comfortable

who wants to take an exit?

no one.not you.

when the door knows this, it will open
forever,
it decides to open for you
and it will tell you to go out and be
an outsider again and
be gone
for good,

you insist that you own this room now,
that a closed door is not a serious matter
and there is no way that you have to
go out
or be ousted,

the door has a stair with strong hands
and it will drag you out
it will pull your hair and drag your body
like hell

the door has learned its lesson
when the room is not a prison to someone else
there is no use keeping him there forever
for in truth the reason of the door's
existence
is to make you feel the prison and to suffer

and you know your lesson too well
there is no prison to a mind that is an open window
there is no suffering
to a lover of suffering

you see, it takes a little reverse psychology
for closed doors to open
for men to know that suffering is not suffering
at all
when one loves is tripping

when one thinks
otherwise
when one loves whatever happens

when one accepts
the one that is there and not look for something
that is always missing

why go for the unreachable?
why suffer for long?

life is life, and death is death
you are here, grab this here.

most people suck one another,
civilization sucks, visions suck,
missions are sucked, there is
no shortage of what is sucked,

oh yes, society is a dismal failure.
you too,suck, ...don't be silly,

the universe is a big failure,
God is disappointed, People suck
Christ, Christians keep on killing
one another, Even those who
say there is only One God,
Creator of heaven and Earth also
suck, they destroy each other's
beliefs, they tell that they are
the only ones who go to heaven
the few chosen one, that they
can never be wrong, that they
are the only Right Race, ..they too
suck, God loves everyone, can He
afford to lose any one?

This world sucks because of
intolerance, because of self-righteousness,

God bless us all. God guide us.
Suck us from an impending Hell.

people are playing games
often they fight, the rules are
changed without notice,

people are killing each other,
the dead lose, the winner is
the living, there is no more
argument about this,
case is closed.

they play their games over
and over again, time is a
room, there are no referees,
no one is just, inherent is
the fraud, the swindler is
the hero, the rich ones have
always crimes behind their
great fortunes,

sometimes they go to court,
judges are made by them
in accordance with their genes,
and those who mold them from
their own clay, are those that
always win


such is the state of affairs,
to cover all these, these twisted
ways, those that have the gold,
invent religion, create society,
write their history, proclaim their
deities, codify their laws, print
the books, carpenter their
own kind of teachers, sculpt
a civilization,

i am a small man,i do not have
many years in my cells, i simply
watch, i do not say much, i keep
my mouth shut, i write a diary,
i keep a journal, i have a blog,
i do facebook, i fit in, i am not
that twisted somehow, i have
objections, i protest inside my
square head, i write in ciphers, i do
not want to be understood, neither
do i want myself to be used.

if you read me, you get nothing.

there is no getaway
from this need
do not mistake it
for love,
this is too shallow,
a comfort, for days
that are long and
hot,

i like it here, watching,
boats come and go,
waters are split,
skies are pierced by
sails, white & blue
with black and gray
linings

the spectator in me
feasts on sights and
sounds, the whole day,
i miss no one, i decide to forget
broken pieces of past
loves,

sin is a matter of
conditioning, a room of
per-arranged furniture
and bed and carpets
of cabinets with color
coding, i am a transcendent
i rearrange
everything, i like
a new way, of
putting propriety,
i love change, i go
for what i have not
seen and felt
experiment, experiment,
discover what
have been hidden
from the eyes,
approach a new day
with a new
perspective
make it 360 degrees
break a neck
throw a leg.

i climb fences and jump
over them all, i cross borders
to travel to another unknown
territory
i do not fear
enemies, i talk to strangers,
even to trees,

fully a stranger now, i do not
need a name, i cut cords,
i am a set of feet,
i leave tracks which
the storms erase moment
to moment, you see,
i am temporary and
no one follows me
precisely i tell you
i am unlikeable.

to see trees
thick barked, tall,
worshiping sky,

to stand beside one
huge trunk, lovely
age, circles,
feel the comfort of
its strength
in phloem,

tiny leaves that filter
mist
feelings that wing
like that of
birds, rains fall
like drum
beats
or heart
pumps

lights come like
slits, needles, soft
glows, unreachable,

a forest of emotions,
trying to understand
heights, penetration
of skies, heavy blackness,
cold rain, night stands
holy cows...

red dragonfly meets
blue dragonfly one bright

day for these
insignificant dragonflies
do their
tail to tail
love
in mid-air

explosions too
serially
beautiful
in their silent
flights

to be fathomed by
a beautiful woman
with long black hair
and well sculpted
pair of legs,

pressing her head
upon a muscular man's
handsome

chest, her hands on his
navel, his lips on her

flowing hair, softly the winds
caress
like butterflies slowly

fluttering from one flower
to another flower

fair and square, in circles
of eternal travels.

after a while, he is convinced
that the other playful one has,

experience, the softness of the
hands, the smoothness of lips,

the way the dance steps are
done by the tongue, one can

see how skilled can experience be
and so there is no need for words

on how to do love, how whispers
sweetly accomplish the need, the

luxury of simply having to wait,
to close one's eyes, to be carried

to the clouds, to dwell in the heavens
for a moment, without wasting

an eyelash, or any sign, how intimate
can loneliness be with the experience

of another loneliness, jibing fitting in,

ecstasy to ecstasy
fantasy to fantasy, and

then when it is over, you sigh,
you always know what you long for,

there is going to be another dance of
the tongues, the thrill of the lips,

on same place, same hour
with the same kindness of the same

person, the one who understands
you even without having the need

to know you, even without having
a name, or the background, the curtain

the need for floors, the demand for
ceilings, the closes of breaths, the need

for air, the size of nipples, the tenor of
the song, the lyrics of the same....

the net with lovely mesh
catches me breathlessly, i

am breathless in this
capture, and unlike those

who want to be free, i,
have learned to love

this captivity, this mesh,
the hands are ready to

take me out from here,
but i am refusing them,i,

love it here, my heart in
captivity has found meaning

i, am, growing the flowers
of lovely prison in my skin,

i am a captive scented
to the perfume of a affection

who is more willing to
preach that freedom

too, is a dangerous matter,
the choices too many to

behold, to be understood,
the responsibility too huge

thus, killing us slowly, here,
i am freed from duty, i,

am sitting on a sofa, with
nothing in my head but

the state of having nothing
of thinking and doing nothing.

in that pit of sorrow
shall one descend

until his head is seen
no more

what is left is the plain
a desert if you mind

the sun is cruel
as seen on the skulls of goats

and men and children
but one cannot just descend

forever into the
grief that is so overwhelming

that is not the end
of this undertaking
for soon one who is scarred
& scared

with so much sadness
learns so carefully
how is to mend and repair
and the heart

that is broken soon shall
reconnect the strings that snapped

from its guitar body
and one's trembling fingers can still

figure music what just two strings
or even one

down to that grave of darkness
where shadows slowly speak

one day an eye looks for a leak
of light on the stone ceiling

and finding the  opening of a hint
wings its way outside

to the world of light where it
once lived

for it shall remember and rise
once again like a kite to the wind

as spirit as scent ascends to  calmness
and gentleness
& plenitude of hope
& if you believe that much
or completely
to the heights of morning
glory


the scars listen and the broken limbs
reshape what the spirits

reinvent: you see, you must have
felt it, because

it happens and we are still here
willing to speak and sing.

Everyone of us here is
in one way or another, and by all means,

exploited. Look at these bloated masters
for whom we
serve so blindly,

they have become coated with
fat
and they all look rich and
sick and
filthy and they pat our backs
and tell us that
we are all doing good

technically, we are,
fools, modern academic fools,
idiots,

we have made monsters
who leave us nothing to ourselves
but our
being undignified

your name is
analogous to
a tongue
in cheek, your favorite
figurative
language
for human relations

i do not have
an iota of
doubt over my past
stupidities

this kind that believes
right away
what every mouth
has to say

i guess i have
not yet learned the language
of the press

underneath the water
is a bed
of air

everything in this
planet of yours
float

nothing settles down
for the
truth

there is this song
which tackles about faith
this walking
faith
in your heart where
you shall never
then
walk alone

God is fair.
Your voice is
like the sound of
a broken bottle
but as
i told you
i admire your
spirit
that courage to
sing like
a defeated warrior
after
the war

years separated us
when we meet again there will
be usual questions like

how is life? did you marry?
how many kids? how old are they now?
where do you work?
where do you live now?

i am tired of all these questions,
frankly i am not interesting and nothing interests me
perhaps
i was made sour by all those years,
but sometimes i may compromise
( but not a civil as you may think me to be) and
so i have my answers now, like

life is not really that miserable.
i got married, no kids only dogs in the house
(not applicable),

oh i work with a gavel,
and i live in my navel.

perhaps i am just dissatisfied with what
life has given me,
and you who claim to have kids like grapes
work like heaven, house like a castle,
and you who is like a story with a
happily ever after ending,

well, thank God, you are like everybody else,
you own a wife, and kids and house,
yourself is multiplied, your face is xeroxed,
your wealth is not just well preserved but
progressed like
hell,

you have chattels and servants and perhaps slaves
and submarines and nuclear weapons,
you have a brand new car,
an excellent paycheck,
by all means, to my mind, you are a superhero
and you have everything
everything

and yet, oh well, just like rest of the people in this world
you are never, never contented, you still ask for more

how much? how long? how wide? no one knows.

on those
empty hours
those passengers fidgety on their seats
waiting
for the next boat

the time that pass
like seagulls without seeing any fish
on the surface of
the sea

that belly
with a protruding navel
borne out of
a sick
mother

the light that is on
at noon time
on a door closed
of an
abandoned house

two bodies making love
in the name of
emptiness

prostitutes without
customers
in a bar
so cold and a singer
that sings
a Whitney Houston

messy room
of a student hooked to drugs

kitchen filled with bugs
and toilets
unflushed for days

flies that invade
a rotten rat
competing with worms

Art thoust
serve

i shall satisfy you all
none shall go home without a gift

i give you the beauty of
a silent face

to another the fullness of
open arms

and to the most patient of them all
i shall give what i have always kept

for quite a time
this nothingness of the mind

this anticipations of the soul
this path that leads to more

gardens of flowers in that
fertile fields of free formations.

the balloon that you released in air
finally burst
and you know not where the rubber
has landed,

just like that old arrow that he shot into the air
you know not exactly where it fell,

just like the love that i am giving, it shall fall
(not for you, who shivers with its touch)
i better give it to the seagull instead

this love for a fish,
this fish that loves nothing but the sea....

in sleep
my lungs are trees
growing
more leaves

my hands are branches
bearing ripe fruits

my feet are roots
sucking nutrients
from my soiled
bed

falling short of words

from this window
glass i see narra trees

the leaves had fallen
it is cold

i am alone looking carefully at the details
of leafless twigs

branches are dry
barks are cracked

the grasses below are brown
beside the fence two boys are playing hide and seek

cars blue and white and black are parked
in one area like gossiping women

i am alone thinking about some details
falling short of words.

two sentences for the night

let us dance,

shall we make love tonight?

el merengue

Mexican clad horsemen
ladies in long skirts

circle dance, stretching hands
clapping of hands,

horses set free in the tundras
snow melting

at the cafe, a muscular man meets
a very feminine woman,

they talk a while , the woman giggles
the man holds her hands

they go for a walk
and it is getting dark

they go inside a copa cabana
drink wine

the moon is full and appears
sits upon a roof

the man pulls down his trouser
the woman undresses herself

he puts off the light
she closes the window.

cliches, disbelief, pretenses, words to avoid.

a bed of roses
mountain of gold
fountain of youth
shangrila,
magic potion
eternity,
love, martyrdom,
holiness,

charity, openness,
self-giving,

patriotism,
talent,
fidelity,

two glasses of red wine
a red carnation beside it

grapes of wrath
gone with the wind

apostle, crowning glory
sacrifice,

obeisance,
geisha, warrior king,
indulgence

did i imagine someone else that time?

we are here in this abandoned house

let us go inside and find out what is left here

the pillars are still tall and nailed to each other

time did not touch the stairs
perhaps they are so insignificant

there is that bed where we spent the moments of youth
your moans are missing

the head board is dusty and the termites ate the legs

it is uneven now, and to hold itself it leans on the side table

i see you on top of me when my eyes were closed.

revisiting our dreams

even in the room of my dreams
when i invited you in

you are till looking for that
squeaking bed

of long ago, when we were so young
and unrestrained

as the wind that gushes forth
from one window to another

i want to reinvent its softness
all its four legs

but the mistress of my sleep
dislikes it

what we have here are flat
uncatalogued floors

a room without walls
an empty space without stars

words flowed
like some reunited letters lately

the concepts come out
from the mind

still like words, syllables conjoining
there are no images still

i wait, i am waiting, i keep on waiting
like a commuter of a train

perhaps i have expected too much from
you
something graphic
like sun rising from a hill
in the full majesty of its
inborn light

after i have read
everything that you have written for years
following each like
the running ticking seconds
of the hour

i feel so disgusted

stalks without flowers
ladies stuffed like mummies

mountains bald deprived of the
green and yellows

there is a world without
sky and sun and sea and dolphins

a patch of light without
a hue

i want to see those prisms
refractions

interactions of colors inside
the depths of
our souls

perhaps i have expected too much from you
and so i am disgusted

give me your world
i will scatter it with stars tonight.

when you pose beside those flowers
and you tell me

it is spring! it is spring!

and that i should be happy
because it is spring time and all the flowers
are showing
their true colors

i stop right there
it is not actually the beauty that we are
caught inside
the prison of having to stay and
believe and
hold on to life with awe

it is the true colors
that i am stuck with

not even the spring that merely
springs it.

when you say that you love me
i do not really believe you

your hands wrap my neck like
some kind of steel chains

and then you plant a kiss on my hair
there is nothing there that grows

it is like a stone that you hit a bird with
and the bird falls from the branch of a tree

dead on the ground
and then you dismiss it as something

natural, birds die
stone hits.

there is a man inside the cage
but you cannot tell that he is a man
because

by all appearances of it
it has black wings, sharp claws, it is muted
by a beak
it can only sing in syllables
it is wrapped by
shiny feathers

it is a bird, a black bird and by all means
you cannot tell
that it is angry

because it sings.

you want me to make a love poem
i will write one
crisp and sweet
and intentionally true

then you will read it

and then you will ask what do i mean
by those images that
you have seen
but cannot figure out
since some hands come out
from the belly
some eyes are put at the
back of the head

i will not tell you

you have always misunderstood love

me.

the white pigeons
find their home inside
the ceiling of this
house

every night i hear their
moaning sounds

they're like the weeping willows
meeting the winds from the far away mountains

there is a packet of winds
trapped in this room

forming a whirl
soon the walls shall tremble

something must give way
to a storm

lest these windows break
frames dismantled

to give birth to a pair of eyes
that will not flicker when it starts

to stare to the sun
or waver to the salt of the earth

these tongues of the mind
these teething thoughts

as you open the door
i reflect upon the sound
of the banging
when you close it

somehow i must be
in the wrong place

but i am not doing anything.

there is something
in your smile
that hinges beyond
the shape of your
body
your arms
sculpt me
into human
form again
for years i
have been
turned into
a big
stone

god of the
walls
pillar of
my gods

when i look
at you
the world
blooms
into a flower

it is this want
and need

but reason is
a sword
that hits
from one side
of my body
to the other

i do not surrender
i am on my wings now
i am flying away
and you feel nothing
about my leaving

nothing's changed
your world is still
sea, sky, land.

dilemma

it is true
you make
my hands
alive
my heart beats
again
when i see
you
but when
i touch you
i will
be dead.

since i am
grappling in
the dark
and you too
lost inside
this room of
less air
and we are
all alone
trying to figure
out where to
take the
exit
the possibility
is
you may soon
touch me
and i may soon
find you
we are anxious
our fears are like
worms inside
our guts
but if i may soon
hold your hand
and touch your
face and your
body
who knows
if there is a switch
there
where i can
turn on
light
so much light
that will guide us
both
to another
world

find me
who knows i
am a switch myself
who knows
if i also own
light
so much light
untapped
undiscovered

discover me
i am waiting
in fear.

i must have
been a tiger
and yet i
did not know
it until you
hinted that
i have sharper
claws
that i roared
in your silence
that i look
so hungry
and you
are the
innocent prey
i have not really
known it
well until you
decided
to run away from
me.

the night is cold
inside the room
our bodies are colder
our emotions
frozen
and we are
like the cold cuts
of the Lord
served upon a
platter
with no one
picking.

if it is handed
to me,
sincerely, i will
take it,
if you close your
hand
and shake your
head,
and look at me
with a square face,
i will understand,
it is not mine
it is meant for
the other
and he deserves it
better
you see
i am a just man
i give in
to what is higher
i nod my head
and will always be
ready
to leave

in one instant
the thought arrives
as a firefly,
or a flash of light
a lightning by the
window that
misses you
as target
you could have died
you shudder
looking on the other
side of the
world
through your half
closed window

a second
sometimes can be fatal
life often
behaves that
way.

it is the detachment
that makes it more
visible,
one as near as your
heartbeat
becomes too familiar
and where it
could have been love
you mistake
as nothing but
a passing
encounter
until the void comes
expands
you you fall into the
hole that you dig
and only then
that you take a second look
of what just happened
regret fertilized
a mass of cells
and is born.

in the afternoon
after a walk uphill
exhausted
i sit down and relax
and do nothing

and then i formulate the
questions
and usually they remain to
be
as there are
in truth no possible
answers

it is this kind of acceptance
that makes life
so exciting so real

complacency subsumed
in uncertainty

the openness of the doors
of this tiny world of the grain
creates the necessary
space for breathing

the ocean of beliefs
chokes us essentially
the myriad choices
freeze us to a series of
mini-deaths

you shall be like the earth
receiving rain and sunshine
without communication

Those tiny mirrors
are giving you pictures of myself
so many of myself
like a picture of teardrops
frozen into
needles
like blades of grass
posing as
swords

you are giving me the impression
that i know very well how to hurt

they tell you
i cause pain and if you ask me
i shall tell you
they are all true
so many are bleeding

and so the toxins are taken away
did they not tell you that
with all the pain
they have become healed?

a simple life one morning with coffee

alright,
we simplify this

it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too

alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in

then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in

you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water

you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home

now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip


enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place

feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup

alright,
is not life as simple as this?

so many words, thousands of thoughts
minted, printed,
so many lines running and running
to an endless destination


do you believe in me? have you noticed
that never ending story? this never ending road?
these endless musings like days and days that
never stop making and grinding time?

this is the restless world
the wriggling worms of our existence
our way of sounding life to the universe

people want to stop to listen
all these restless people who cannot rest on the nights
they want to die but couldn't
they want to live but can't

what a mess? orderliness, flitting and so temporary
change is always there and always changing
and waning and fading and shining and glowing

you cannot stop because if you will
you are not yourself anymore

do you take shelter in the house of logic?
look! it is crumpled by the battle of light and darkness
parallel lines swerve and fuse at the end when the speed of light
triples and tipsy at the black holes of misunderstanding

you will tell me, i am trembling, short of what i should have
given you in a silver platter of common understanding
that i am just confusing you and making you miserable

sad to say, there is no order in this universe,
the molecules move in random, the atoms are in disarray
like the air, but how can you really see?

you feel only the wind, and see the leaves swaying
you feel the joy, but always, and always, the disorder is there.

confusion as a gift

there is nothing
wrong with
confusion, in fact, perplexity is
a common occurrence which in some ways
give us the warning that
something wrong may happen

there are walls, these are laws,
there are fences, these are guides

when you break the wall, the thieves come
and take everything from you
when the fences are broken, the pigs come and
eat what you have planted

doubt is a mark of our humanity
confusion is our acceptance that we are but
limited creatures of thought

when you are perplexed
take laughter
think some more
give time its due
savor the peace of logic
let rules be rules

doubt, doubt some more
i am sure, you are alive.

the crabs are the creatures of pincers
they bite each flesh and nerve
and it will be so painful but you
are as silent as the
grass and as resilient as the
the vine that is in touch with the
latest wind

when you are finally taken
i know that like the rest you are not coming back
to tell us
how it is there
what perfection has been given
how happiness can never be contained
because it is
beyond the hold of our hands
beyond the grasp of the
human minds

lucky, indeed how lucky can you be
on your first trip to
eternity

there is pain on my right side
there is something living in there and growing
it is silent
and decent and reserved
it is blind and like all blind creatures
its sense of touch has been well defined
it is touching me
and listening

i am ignoring it
it can take me soon to places that i know
exist and can ostracize me from
friends
it can silence me too
like a raging river that finds its
place of peace

some brown leaves float there
on undisturbed waters
i can hear only the soft wings of butterflies
fluttering

somehow there is pain that sometimes i cannot ignore
but i have accepted them
as my new friends

it will stay with me and then will take me
and i will be gone
but i have always been a brave man
and i am not
at all
complaining

after all, i own nothing and will take nothing
it is it that owns me and so it is it that will take me

the injustice of course lies in the
camouflage and she knows all these but she never mentions that to you
for she cannot live
without you that even the hint of
a possibility of
a parting, just the slight movement of the finger
from the hand
she then starts to cry and
touches you and
tells you that you must never leave her
for she has nothing
and no one

you are a man of compromises
and you live between night and day

you always miss the stars but you cannot even be
gazing for them
even for a night

you love to play under the sun and take time at the beach
and play ball and bathe under the softest light
but you cannot have your feet settled on the sands

this is what happens when you have not decided
categorically
one hand in heaven and the other in hell
and your body wiggles as your face is divided
your eyes are crossed
and your feet cannot dance
the way it should have been
done perfectly

on that harmony of love and affection
because you have chosen only one.

surely you must have noticed by now
that he is evading
what could have been real but you must
understand
that he is already in pain with all
the nightmares that
visit his brain in his sleep
his eyeballs rolling seeking an
exit from
the misery of the nerves
that inhabit his
brain

evasion by itself is beauty
a metaphor for survival

when you meet again
you shall speak of the most irrelevant things

such as a blue bird, a black butterfly that lands
on her white hand
a tree that is longing for a blue bird
a star that hangs itself on a branch of
the night

you do not speak about love
it is too direct to be understood and it will be painful
if confronted

you evade describing a face of a woman
you have seen her dressed in black satin her hair long and curly
her eyes sunken
her cheeks some valleys of so many deaths

you always dream of her
you do not tell her any hint about it
how she stares at you
and blames you for all her miseries in that faraway land
where she exiles herself

she knows how to convert pain into art
pieces of poems
and until all these pains do not subside into a calm
and deep river
she will not spare you
any of her words

that fly in silence into the skies of your
mouth
and lands into the crevices of
your
abandoned heart

the reasons fail to justify you
as you continue in your uncharted journey
that one day
you meet again and you do not anymore remember
what pain is there in the past
or even
what happiness shall lie ahead

at that point
what is relevant is not even regret
but only to be
back in your arms again

she lets her head rest in your chest
and then you close your
weary eyes

the mind is engrossed in thought
the word is embossed in the skin
the tattoo speaks to you
and you ignore what is too obvious
and immobile

at the beach
i pass you by
and you take a slight look
which i surely will not mind

then we face what is beside us
we hold the hand that feed us
we live in the house
where love is another stranger
that does not know
us.

he does not take things sitting down now
the legs have reminded them of their impatience
the hands are wary and the eyes are no longer skeptical
one must stand

one must take his stand now
the crowd is taking that one voice of the brave man

then he asks himself, what for? everything had been lost
most of himself had been taken away
and there is nothing left except the mind that he completely owns now
that thought that he will never speak about it
because if he will
the world will be lost, the castle of illusion shall crumble

and those that who know courage
for the last time
shall die

and to choose between silence and leaving away
and having to see a world ruined by another hurricane of ideas

he's rather have
what it takes the lie to survive, darkness retreating
to give way to light

another new day without change
another peaceful day with some tolerable tales

it is not the right time yet
perhaps, tomorrow, yes, perhaps when i am no longer with you.

the poor [ i.e. workers of the farm,
pregnant corn husker, the driver of the
pedicab, the smoking tomato gatherer,
the sweet potato washer}

i am lost in the symbols
of humanity, i am trying to decipher again
the meaning of their visit
and they decision here to spend the night
at the second floor of this house
where my father-in-law died because his
son pushed him towards the stair
and hit his head
on the grinding stone

the bolo is sharp, blood flowed from the
pig's neck
after that scream

there is noise, and some magicians are selling
potions
when someone needs love so badly
and then resorts
of spells

the natives are smelling so bad
there is no water in the river where they come from
they are thin
there stomachs are filled with air
hairs with lice

i guess you know when this happens
and why this happens

because, it is fiesta time and there is no more road for us to use.

my left hand touches the right side of my neck
rubbing it and then slides its fingers to my ear
i open my mouth to signify that i long for sleep

i put my hands on top of my unwashed hair
the day's schedule is hectic like the way a juggler pleases our eyes
i open my mouth letting the wall see my egg white
teeth and then i close my mouth again
sipping air inside my lungs
my eyes are like heavy clouds low to the ground
becoming fog to the grass

i am sleepy
but i do not want to sleep

i am teasing time since it has no
underwear

because we have so many things still
to be done,
we have lost our sense of time
the capacity to grow affections
have become nil, in fact, shrinking
like the way the speed of light twice
its speed has shrunk my eyes into
a mongo bean
my heart now a tiny part of a
red pear that hangs itself upon
a very loose talk

things happened so fast
she says death is preposterous

a friend was drunk from a
reunion
and drove his car back home
alone

his body stiffened
he was dead last night

and no one found him
the police came late

death is fast and furious and
flattering

he courted it and voila
he got yes for an answer

when he goes out into the world
there are no arms waiting
it is loneliness that walks with him

so he decided to stay and close the
doors and windows

thinking that in this way the world
will love him as others expect

the rope of loneliness chokes him
and so he prepares to go back into the open

he dresses well enough to face the wind
and dance with the shadows

they demand that he tells him his real name
and not wear a mask and sing the usual song

he refuses to cater to a brutality
he goes back to his room and reads a book

and closed the door again
and he grows up into a very strong silence

confident upon the soundless nook and
expects no one to call his name again

at the end he learns this game of
responsible loneliness

the one that does not speak when hurt
that does not smile even when seduced by joy

when we are too near
more is left behind

when we leave
we carry less in return

we either leave or stay
it is neither less or more

when we are full
we are speechless

when we want to speak
we think less

then we regret
it would have been

the other way around
the culprit is this silence

regret

i wrote a very long
sentence

and i pause at the
spot where i could have
put an end

and then i press the cursor
back

i have deleted you
in there

i wish to build a house
away from here
i have stored the necessary
colors of the paints
on the walls of my mind

i wish to stay in that house
alone
i will be in the company
of paper and
pen

i will fence it
it will be high

our house is not
my home

the night road
stretches its arms towards
an endless horizon
seeing to it that
we shall not reach each
other
the parallel edges
do not meet each
other
even you feel so tired
and fall
asleep

no one says
no one accepts
that there is nothing in there
between us

sensing that you do not wish to talk

or engage in

oral intercourse like those previous
free falling conversations
which we
conclude to be honest and candid and free
and agreeable

i stopped talking too

talking is not important anyway because
my fingers
have taken as many mouths as there are

without being loud

i respect your silence but somehow i detest your way of
surrendering to the helplessness of

silence

i remember when i was told that tomorrow will be my last day
and which happened to be false

i visited friends and knock from one door to another
telling them

that i love talking and that talking relieves me from the pain of
having been given only one day to live

when i have not gathered the sunflower which shall bloom in February
when my book shall arrive next week before
i shall close my eyes
and cease breathing

we were under a pyramidal roof
surrounded by coconut trees
beyond us the sea and some white painted boats

the seagulls are busy catching fish on their beaks
while fishermen arrive with salt on their bodies

and it was that time that i notice that this world is so beautiful
and the people too friendly

and yet
when we leave and be away for good and think that out there
there is more to all these

there is that sense of obligation to comply
this is not our home but just a hotel and we must not be too ungrateful to stay some more

because we did not pay anything at all.

the difference between
you and me

is not the sameness of
our miseries

the difference is that you
are an open window

that has closed again
but i am a window that i

broke and never close
because there is no more reason

to keep me closed i am
sinfully opening to the

changes of the clouds &
the course-less drifting of the wind

i do not pay attention
to direction now
except perhaps on the basics

of having to feed my day to
day existence

when you arrive here
i am no longer myself

and then you leave
saying i am the useless wind

of the house and i deserve
no room at all

early in the morning
before i become myself again

words rain in my eyes
like tears

salt to my tongue and
biting

i want to put them in a
bowl

treat them like salad
days

but i do not eat words
neither do you

so i let them pour
on the vacancies of the

floor and they drip on
the earth and

gone & i said i have no
time for thoughts

thoughts do not help me
find my arms

i rush to go and be myself
again

on the wings that you
detest

above everything else
i resume

catching breaths
like words

feeding myself like
paper

last night
i was a flat tire

it is the usual
deflation that

makes me sleep
and she is not surprised

anymore why we keep
this matter happen

the reasons are laid
on the dinner table where

the food has gotten so cold
and the mantel unchanged

we keep busy
that is the only way to live

we keep ignoring
that is the only way to learn more

and keep the parts of the house
intact the furniture stable

on four feet on dusty existence
on days that we let go

because there is no more reason
to make them different so

we can stop and gaze for a while
and say we love to be here

when the news of any disease come
we do not think anymore of hospitals

or recall the best doctor in town
or whether we sacrifice time for it

it is enough it is enough
our mouths are singing

we do not think whether we
have gone crazy

we have no time for all these
we think of place far, so far away

and if there is only one that offers
eternal shelter we are ready

to set aside home, kin, and
memories

to escape
asphyxiation
i open
a lot of windows
and wear
my self-made
wings

i do not land
i skip skies

drift on clouds
nine to ten

i try burning my
skin with the
sun's terms of
endearment

it will be a whole
day affair

i speak to no one
and no one speaks to me

so many
so many words trickle like rain
in my hair

thoughts wet me all over
like flood on the grasslands

when the day is over
i go back to my room and

lay my self on the floors
wings hang on the ceiling

i repeat this all day
and i am not destroyed

the separation makes me live
loneliness is my bread

between shakespeare
and bukowski

i prefer bukowski

brautigan smells better
than shelly

this is my way of telling you
that i am shallow and cheap

on the other hand when i
begin to write like
bukowskin and brautigan
combined

i know that somehow in that
pretense of yours
you still like me and read a lot
about me

inside your room, and then
with affection
you kiss every word
that you think i do not really mean
writing

every day
i climb a mountain
and i like
it
three more mountains
to go
and it will be dark
and i like it
when i arrive there
i will be very tired
and i will have a nice sleep
beside the stars
on the grass under
the moonlit
sky

dadi

oh she was miserable
she is always crying

her handkerchief is dirty
with her tears
and make up

i told her there is no reason to panic
everything here
is temporary

i assured her
her woes are much milder than the woes of those
who are here
and listening to her

and i let the other four who were with us
speak about their mess

they tell their own sad stories
how they escaped from hell

and then Dadi starts to smile
her handkerchief is dry

and she leaves us with a happy heart
to comfort her

we have to concoct miseries much
greater than hers

and then we start all over again
back to chapter 1

i always know how to create a happy world

i do not have to wait for a designer of
a happy interior

there is no place for a home maker here
i can manage

i cook a stew of happiness here
put them in a bowl
there is no recipe or choosing of
ingredients or even
measuring the quantities of salt and pepper
to be put there

whatever is available
i cut and make part of the menu
if it is hard, i soften it
if it tastes bland, i add salt and
seasoning
and if i want it sweeter
i do not have to ask for an opinion
i put whatever is my
dream and liking

i have learned to live alone
and happier this time

you must see me
perhaps next year
and i will not invite you
anymore
to enter my
new house

if you give me a ring
i will not answer it

there is no more rain
in my pond
the fish who is alone here
does not surface and show to me
it mouth
it has always been toothless
the moss are annihilating themselves
and the stones are
bald and
old and
dead
the nipa palms are cut and left there
there is no more roofing to do

you have abandoned me
and it is so painful

you are old now.

when i step into the room
i could have told you
but you are the one always speaking

"the king can do no wrong"

i look at the pile of books
silent damn books

i am following your footsteps
into that
hateful anonymity

when time brings us all here
we are told
we have not really done anything great

the books of our lives
will be consisting of empty pages

you were so engrossed in speaking
and i am lost in my
boredom

i was thinking of those that have not arrived here
those who have also given
hope like me but they are still in some unknown places

i turned off my cell phone
this time i must confront the void
into speechlessness

into my failures
for what i have not done

before i left the room i took one book
it is not that the king can do no wrong

there is no king.

as i drove the car last night
i passed by the thick crowd of people
in a big circle
the old yellow bus stopped and
some motorcycles were
blinking their lights

the ambulance finally arrived
in short seconds

two bodies of bloody unconscious
males were hauled away

blood flowed again on the floors
of the night

i did not know who they were
what they did and what they dreamed
from where they were
the women that loved them
... i am not interested
i am tired of this routine of
deaths almost every night

i guessed another alcohol caused
mishap, perhaps

i always wanted to be back home
and it was already late at night

i have had
that round faced
stone in
my hand

i felt its potential
for perfect
roundness

it was smooth and it
could make
a difference

it could be something
greater
beyond itself
beyond the concealment
of my hand

i see time shrinking
like a drying bubble
of rain
on the ground

and so i threw the stone
away

no one knew it
i was not that interested really
about potentials
or about
perfection

time shrank
what is the use of hope?

when you walk away
i am not sad

what i think most
is that you must find the right path

this one is not for you
i have seen your footsteps break
themselves upon
those roadblocks

i have to drive you away
for you do not grow well here
a moss to sand
a seed on a rocky ground
a tower on a pile of sand

you are destined to be great
in the land where your feet are desirous
like some kind of dancing feet on those
dancing shoes
like some kind of fingers fidgety on those
guitar strings

law is a serious faced monster
with blind eyes and sharp claws and
venomous tongue

the fool in me

i always think
of you

do not forget
that
i always think
of you

though i doubt
if you
also think of me

i like to think
that you also think of
me

upon a hill
under the moon
and stars

i always think of you
even inside my dream
i always think
of you

i dream that
you also think of me
as i always think
of you

i realize i am a fool
until last night
at the mall

when i see you in the
arms of another

like a vine clinging
to a tree

like a jacket to his
body.

when you die
i shall not cry

i shall not have
you my tears

i will just wave
my hands
like the sea
to the land
where it does
not belong

i shall not smile
what relevance
is earthly joy
to heavenly bliss?

i will give you a wink
like a lover
signaling our
future meeting

i have secrets

those valleys and
hills that i love and that
i can exchange
my soul for

those sunsets
that i adore and which

you cannot see
and ever speak

for which my eyes
feast and delight
my hands hold so
dear
like the sun and
winds

too many of them
not one, yet, you can
feel

i am dead
because of those
that you have
never seen
or tasted

and so forgive me
for all those
lies
those excuses

i am alive
in the world of the dead
because
of too much
bliss

my hands even in
thousands
my eyes even in
hundreds
cannot be
fully contained.

rain from
the roof tops
finding its
way to the gutter
exiting
at a post of the house
near me

sputtering
my silence that hides
in my
unutterances

food for the
mosquitoes

that is what i
am
at this very moment

when i am
trying again to
compose
these lines
for you

be a candle
to me

shine in darkness
consume yourself

cry, cry,
in silence

consume yourself

be those tears
wasted on
the graveyard
of the one
you love

be gone....

affection

my favorite dog
named pretty is
sleeping beside
the soles of my
feet letting me
feel
its warmth reminding
me
that there is such thing
as
bestial affection

there is always death
coming

death has always
been here with us

it is silent and does not
say anything

it is us
in this delirium fearing him

we talk too much
until we are silenced by

death
and death still is silent

it knows
what the ripe time is

it knows
where it is taking us

it knows
that is why it is silent

it knows pretty well
that soon when we completely know

it, we shall soon agree completely
it is beautiful as it is silent
as silence is beautiful

it is filled with so much wisdom
as wisdom is silent with its beauty

it is the only truth
that we must abide

and after that ordeal of pain and
worries
needlessly the anxiety of the unknown
that is spread under our
feet

we are victorious with it
we passed
as we passed away
we join those who are silenced too
in full wisdom and
beauty

death shall tell you
now you are perfected.

the promise that love always triumps

it has been a quite a time
sorrow was here

it has departed
i am glad

it did not leave
casualties here

in the road there is
a woman bathing

with sunshine
walking towards the park

on an early morning wind
meeting a friend

(could be a lover
the way he kissed her on
the lips

and held her hands
like a fragile
glass figurine
of a princess)

then the rain has put
a gentle shower

the rainbow shows
unexpectedly above

the poplar trees
poised in the beauty of
such a promise

that love always triumphs
whatever

bliss

the hills
are legs spread upon the plains

waiting
as some flowers spread their scents
on the thighs
of the valleys

the sun arrives
in its naked grandeur

since then
love, and love and love
has filled the
earth

winds so soft
and clean and fresh

the heart of the earth
beats
for love and love and more love

the sea is quiet and
calm

and then tonight
the moon and stars

engulfed by
a sigh
you unleash
sleep

sleep has
not cradled
you

you wish
for its hands

taking the shape
of a fist

you wait
but when it opens

it caresses
another hair

and so you
persevere upon

a thought
that is drunken

upon a sigh
that takes another
sigh

you moan
and love
finally
remembers

at the second look you feel wasted
that beautiful face seemingly should not have been yours
it does not fit
the wrinkled soul
that you are

how unlucky is this body
to have you
how sad is the turn of events
how miserable has the other become
because she loves you

and then he closes the windows
and doors
he spreads the drapes to drive
away
a figment of light
he walks away from the
world outside and now
stays within
as another world opens like
a bud
into a giant flower
where he alone
becomes the stamen
at a certain moment
secreting the
nectar of his
own making

a sky is made and clouds
drift
a sun appears
and light so much light
satisfies his thirsts
and hundred
hungers

it is so calm
his world is at peace
in a soundless
sphere

justice is an
eternal search
a way of
balancing
that does not
balance
at all, or sometimes
maybe
when you feel you
are near it
and yet it becomes
too slippery
to your touch

this morning i
like to tell you that
i like to do justice
to love

that i have not rendered
what is due it
that i am a kind of
a shortcoming
a big lapse
a slippery hand that slips
away from your
body

i like to tell that you
i am unjust
not having loved you so
well
or even if i want to
i simply can't

you are running with time
you are short of it
and at the last hour of
the rush you tell
me that it is time to leave
and that something
shall be done

you kiss my forehead
not my lips
you tell me " i love you"
and then
you say "bye"

i have not told you anything
because i know
that you are returning
because i know that i am
not

or must i contrive about
new choices
that there are many ways of
loving you

that there comes a time
when the moon is full and
we are together
under its light and we say
that despite everything
those lapses and
shortcomings we keep on
that hold

we love each other no matter
what
even if we do not love even if we
feel nothing
even if we are deprived
of any emotion
even if the shallowest feeling
does not touch
us with its fingers again
the fingers of a
child
unborn.

on that morning
when there is no water
when the face
needs washing
and you did not
wash it
when you feel
like not doing
anything about your
skin
you actually fell like
you have
many layers of skin
on many faces
that you become so
afraid to see the mirror
and find out
what is really wrong
or if there is
at least one aspect
where something
right can exist
even for
a moment

you let time
pass away
you do not hold
a part of its
skirt
you are not in the mood
for a skirmish
with the seconds
or any single
minute

you let everything go
you have no hold of
anything anyway
and you keep yourself
still
as steel
unmoved by that feeling
of unbecoming
that situation where
you feel the
mud drying all over
your body

you dream of water
and rain
something to drench
the wall inside you

you are helpless
there is no sense to
a cleansing
or a removing

you continue with
your task
the one that does not
pay
like a crime

i always console myself with the idea that i am not
at all alone

there are too many of me, of us, that we all become one boring
brew of liquefied images
coffee flowing on the carpet and wetting it and there is a fume
and the dust are captured on the stains

what i feel now is the feeling that i do not want anything at all
that i just write what comes to my mind
without choosing

and i am bombarded with thoughts and i am always on a defensive stance
a recipient always, passive and relaxed

things that come like rain to an empty earthen vessel
gives that feeling of fullness
which is too pacifying to the weary mind

then the vessel is filled with water and water pours out its liquid body
to the ground
to the grass to the canals racing to another path

we try to follow it
it has myriad options and we are at a loss which way shall it be

words are like that
they pour upon our void

others are blind and keep on talking about
hair and heads and hands

it is just myself that feel
emptying and filling and running and taking the journey again

what you see is the stillness of the body
a shadow on the wall

the night and rain sometimes come together
i choose to be your moon

and you are there looking at me
i am full, your gaze empties me

into a profusion of gentle dancing light
on your face

i never said a word
in the silence of my own understanding

you are so far away like a fallen star.

while in bed i am enumerating a lot of things
that i really don't know

what they are and where they come from
and what use could they be

in my emptiness i think that something fuller this time
is what i need

like hot water perhaps for a cup for an afternoon tea
but the image is too ordinary for a whim

of this imagination something's got to be better this time
something that i have not touched with my hand

that i have not tasted with my tongue
i know, i know what it is , but i know that i cannot have it

and so i just lay in bed, enumerate the other things
silly and wise, and empty and full, and paths and mountains

and labyrinths, until i am a flash in full speed of images
until i am sleepy and then i forget what is it that i know that i want and yet

i cannot have
and i begin counting sheep and ships and imagine the whole ocean blanket
to my body and
face and then
i sleep

i am tired and when this happens
i do not mind what happens next and
i do not wish about anything

i am done.

the fire is burning within
a body of fat

it is a niche favored by
heat and goes into a journey

of melting and flowing
into a conflagration

into a chaos that consumes
everything

where one is finally lost
and gone for good into the air

into limitless space
after which, all the fears are gone

and what is left
is only that relief

a calling for the annihilation
of what was built

and when everything is empty and
soundless

another beginning begins to breathe
and once again

this earth grows some petals
of land

leaves of mountains
lovers find themselves back in their arms

into the pond
sounding the first splash

and i shall remember
the legend of the frog

there is a straight path
and you want to walk straight to it
you cannot, there is this desire to
go inside a circle and hide
behind those curves,
there is this wish to find a resting place
a glass cage
a one-way mirror where you see all of them
and then
no one sees you
sometimes i look for some reasons why
this behavior is sought

there is this straight path that nobody wants to take
it is too tight in there
and everyone sees you
and their gaze hurt a lot
and you do not deserve to suffer upon their causes

no wonder birds travel on clouds
and build their nests
how men made walls
how women hide their faces on hats and
winter coats

there is this secret that we keep
that we bring even to our death
it is this secret that makes us what we are

others miss us
because we have never told them

the trees wish to look inside the nests
where birds have already flown away

we smile because they tell us to smile
we project what this world must be

or ought to be, but after that last click
we go back to the

beginning when we were going somewhere without a definite direction
when it was raining so hard and we found no shelter

when every part of us, present and future is wet with
anxiety, and there is no sign that

the rain will stop, that the door will open showing us the way
to the fire

no two persons with separate arms and legs will have to stay in one room forever
the feet walk away

the eyes fly
thoughts roam the world and will be glad to know each cloud

of doubt
each sting an education each wound

a seed of growth
we shall soon know this and we give way to our soul

traveling, traveling, until you become so strange as a creature i have not ever
met before

a myth, a story,
and then you smile realizing the truth of being blown by the wind
dusts, yes dusts,

that is what we are
and will always be, into the nothingness of what we have
not ever
thought before

you are first
if you keep on searching, you will know more than what is necessary for tomorrow

you are the first to know and will tell those who know
to obey the dictates of silence for a while

there is no more argument possible in this
but only that silence that rifts what flesh is found in the bone

do not worry that much, there is no need after all
because i will be next

and i am not telling you
you will not be glad, but you will not be alone anymore

there are things that do not jibe
round peg to a square hole for instance

birds that dive and fly in the belly of the sea
or fish that swim in the molten lava of the earth

us, for instance, is another thing
we have ceased to be human tired of the power of words in our lips

we should have kissed as often as we signify a love that does not change
but, we are some of these things that do not jibe at last

our dances have become awkward
people are watching and they just couldn't say it honestly that we have to stop

us, scarecrows
not scared but powerless over the vultures that feed on our flesh

over those birds that steal the grains of our youth
over time that is too cruel

us, feeding upon us,
about to puke.

there is a time
and i know it has dawned upon you
late that night
that you do not want any pore of your skin
or tip of your hair
for another scrutinizing
scan

cancer is just a cell
that screams and goes berserk
runs amok
in those complacent organs

soon it will be a time-bomb that explodes
and kills everyone there

you are prepared i know
and there is nothing to worry

cancer is your paid ticket to another trip
this time the place will be exciting
exotic

or quixotic
possibly since everyone goes there anyway
and those who left earlier

so far no one came back to report upon
that journey

look for a travelogue
there are no notes

enjoy the trip
grab the ticket
it is free

the flight is certain
nothing canceled
nothing rerouted

but this time there are no duty free stores around
you are alone
(perhaps still scared) and you look at the board

there is no fixed time yet

oh yes, the doctor will tell
not the travel agent of yours